Yellow rose, yellow rose,
Emily Dickinson
lived in seclusion, was
never a wife;
wrote of her garden most
anthropocentrically,
talking with God, Satan,
Death, all her life.
*****
There’s an old suggestion that all of Emily Dickinson’s poetry can be sung to the tune of ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’.
I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
(Brave words, but I think that waves would have surprised her with their complexity and power and sensuousness.) There’s a newer suggestion that she lived so reclusively because she suffered from epilepsy, and wanted to hide it as much as possible out of a sense of shame.
Strange woman, strange life, strange little poems… but remarkably insightful, accessible, and word-for-word memorable.
My double dactyl on her was recently published in The Asses of Parnassus – thanks, Brooke Clark!
“Emily Dickinson” by Amherst College Archives is marked with Public Domain Mark 1.0.
Form in Formless Times 